


The Touch of an Angel Paints Us Blue

by Lost_Elf



Category: Borderlands (Video Games)
Genre: Almost forgot to tag that, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fate, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Gentle Handsome Jack, Happy Ending, Hospitals, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Light Angst, Love, M/M, Minor Injuries, Sassy Rhys (Borderlands), Sick Character, Sick Rhys (Borderlands), Sickfic, Suicide Attempt, long-term illness, slightly graphic descriptions of injuries and illness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-06
Updated: 2020-02-06
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:00:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22577443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lost_Elf/pseuds/Lost_Elf
Summary: Jack keeps running into this kid over and over, every time in the same hospital room. Weighted and almost broken by loss, pain and hatred, he tries to get rid of him, but fate has other plans. And Jack only begins to understand those plans once he sees blue markings on the boy's skin.
Relationships: Handsome Jack/Rhys (Borderlands), Timothy Lawrence/Wilhelm (mentioned)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 123





	The Touch of an Angel Paints Us Blue

**Author's Note:**

> Question – can I gift this work to myself? Because I deserve it.

First time they’ve seen each other didn’t actually stick in Jack’s mind, and Rhys had to fill him in.

Jack and Tim were just passing through the ER – visiting someone, perhaps, and looking for a working elevator to the correct floor. One of the twins looked nothing like the other that day. One looked tiny compared to the other, slouched, almost trembling. Scared. But a strong hand landed on his shoulder, and it was like his brother lent him some of his strength. He straightened, nodded to himself, raised his head.

With his brother momentarily taken care of, the other twin’s eyes wandered for just a second. His heterochromatic eyes locked with frightened brown. To him, Rhys was just a poor kid, terrified of the needle that a nurse was trying to stick into his arm. They needed to put him on IV, but he was too scared, seconds from trying to run away. In that moment, although adult, Rhys felt like a lost, scared kid too. He came here because his right hand hurt a little! Why were they putting needles in him?!

He saw one of the twins say something to the other and walk his way. He didn’t know why he did it. The man didn’t say anything. Rhys didn’t ask. They just kept looking at each other. It was like a spell. When the handsome man stopped next to the bed he was forced to sit on, and without asking took Rhys’ smaller hand in his, it felt like he pulled him away from the terrifying reality to somewhere else, somewhere nice.

The needle smoothly sliding into place in his vein didn’t even sting. Rhys only noticed when five or so tapes were put there to hold it in place. The warm hand disappeared, and the reassuring face too. None of them said anything; the most communication that happened was a wink the man threw his way when he was already walking away with his brother.

* * *

* * *

The second time was unforgettable. It was shortly after Jack woke up from the last surgery, minutes after the doctor reminded him of the accident and left.

He was angry, furious. He raged, he hated, he hated everything and everyone in the fucking world. He wanted to kill, he wanted blood to flow, wanted everybody to feel the pain that he was feeling. Why were the pain suppressants not working?! Why was there so much pain?!

Somebody was lightly snoring next to him. It was so soft that it was _barely_ snoring, but it was there. Somebody was contently sleeping while Jack was in pain, and he hated that person already. He wanted them to die. He was determined to kill them in their sleep, or if he was too weak to accomplish that, he knew that he could talk them into doing that job for him and killing themselves. Whatever reason they had to be put in the ICU, Jack knew that it would be easy to hit the nail on the head and drive them into a wall. Or out of the window.

It was easy to disturb the sleep of the kid. Jack was loud, angry and authoritative. He didn’t see, but he knew that his growled command made the man next to him listen. Or, the voice was of a man, but soul was of a child. From the few words he got to speak before Jack interrupted him —' _hey, I’m Rhys; it’s okay, I can call the nurse for you if you are in pain’_ — he knew that he is as innocent as a kid in ICU can be. But Jack was angry and hurting, and he didn’t care.

The words that spilled from his mouth were pure venom. He talked in the voice that made people obey, that made people want to lick his boots, to walk willingly into the traffic. He wanted the young man to go and kill himself, and Rhys listened.

And when Jack was over, he chuckled. “Don’t worry about me,” he said. “I beat death. I hope you will feel better in the morning. Good night, strange man.”

_What a freaking hippie_ , Jack thought. _Stupid kid_.

When he woke up in the morning, it was to a commotion in their room. They took Rhys away for another surgery. They brought him back eighteen hours later. Jack moved the bandages away from his healthier eye for a second to look at him. Pale, small in the bed, skinny, missing an arm. And still, Jack had only hate for him.

* * *

* * *

Third time, he knew him immediately. Tim had basically hired a battalion to get Jack to the hospital for a check-up. There was Wilhelm behind him like a wall, making sure Jack won’t try and run for it. Nisha was basically pulling him by his ear. Tim was by his side, trying to look stern. He only managed to look tired and concerned. God knows – and so does Jack – that the younger brother barely slept since the incident, every couple minutes tiptoeing to his brother’s room to check on him.

Jack only had to wait for five minutes, and they didn’t put him into the big waiting room with all the staring people. He was waiting in a plastic chair right in front of the doctor’s office. Someone was there, chatting happily.

Rhys gave him a surprised but warm smile when he passed him on his way back. His body was weak and wobbly, supported by a big man with a stylish moustache, probably his father. The missing weight on his shoulder threw him off, but he was still smiling.

“I really like what you are doing with Hyperion,” he said, stopping for a while to catch breath. There was sweat on his pale forehead, probably from the strain. “I read it on the news. You, uhm, you are cool, is what I want to say. I’m glad you are feeling better.”

Jack wasn’t feeling better. He wasn’t sure he would ever feel better. The hunger for blood was gone, yes, and he didn’t even want to kill this too good idiot anymore. But his face, and that bitch, all those—

“Jack!” Tim’s concerned voice snapped him out of it. It grounded him, helped him calm his breathing. When did his heart start hammering?

He put all that energy into something better. He would use it all to make something of Hyperion, to take care of his brother, to kill that bitch who did this to him. This wasn’t what Rhys meant by better. But this was Jack’s better, the only good he knew for months afterward.

* * *

* * *

Plastic surgery, physical therapy, mental therapy, hard work, all the love from his family he could get, and Jack still wasn’t feeling better. He was depressed. Later, he would look back to the four months after the accident that he spent in a hateful and pathetic haze, and scowl, thinking of it as pathetic. It should have been obvious to him then that he is depressed, suffering post-traumatic stress, and he shouldn’t be driving everyone away. But Jack was always an idiot when he was hurting.

No more check-ups with his face, but with his new position as the CEO came a new reason to visit the hospital. Every now and then, there would be an attempt at Jack’s life, or an accident in the R&D, or he got a papercut, and Timothy would freak out. This time, it was a rather deep cut on his bicep from a shard of glass after some experiment exploded.

“Hello, nice lady,” Jack snapped at the poor receptionist in front of him. “Can I, pretty please, get a nice band-aid with animals on this and go home?” Tim would roll his eyes and push him away, taking care of the talking himself. Jack would be always admitted first.

Not this time, apparently.

Well, they tried. The door was open, a young doctor waiting for him, a pretty, young nurse by his side looking delighted that these two gentlemen will be their patients. But then the receptionist called: “Hank, wait!”

Seconds later, an ambulance stopped too close to the door. Three men hopped out, wheeling a portable bed with a young patient towards the room that was no longer open for Jack. All of them ran as fast as they could, or so it seemed to Jack. Never before, and never after, did he see people from ambulance run this fast. But time worked differently in that moment.

Cries of pain, desperation and fear filled the room as the bed was pushed in, and they didn’t stop when the other door closed. It settled in everyone’s ears, renewed every time the door was open as more and more doctors rushed in to help.

“Can’t you give him anything for the pain, for Christ’s sake?!” Jack heard a woman voice shout at her colleagues.

“We did; it didn’t work,” someone answered coldly.

Jack didn’t shiver because of the pain the person was in, or the implications, or the huge possibility that they would die. The goosebumps on his skin were caused by the fact that he recognised the one-armed man. And for a brief second, as he was wheeled past him, their eyes locked.

The cries stopped suddenly. Everything was quiet. Nobody dared to move, to breath. _‘Is he dead?’_ somebody asked. _No_ , Jack thought. _He beat death once._

“He’ll be alright,” Tim said to Jack. As if they knew him. As if the kid meant anything. As if Jack was worried! No, he was just creeped out, suddenly cold. They surely met here often.

* * *

* * *

Jack woke up in a hospital bed, for a second confused. Then, he remembered his broken leg, bone so shattered that he needed operation. It would heal quick, but a few days in the hospital were unavoidable.

Stretching and yawning, Jack looked around and instantly stilled. He was met with a pair of brown eyes.

“What the hell are you doing in my room again?” he mumbled.

Rhys heard him and chuckled. “Actually,” he began, also stretching. He put up some weight since the last time, Jack noted. Maybe he was doing better? “This is my room.”

“Your room?” Jack asked, eyebrows shooting up his face.

“My room,” Rhys hummed approvingly. “Whoever takes care of rooms in this place always tries to put people in the same room they were in before, if there was a before. If you end up on a different floor, they will try to put you in a room above or below the previous one. It’s easy to remember, then, I guess. Less visits barging into a wrong room.”

“How does this make it your room?” Jack asks impatiently.

“I’ve been here before. I’ve been here many times. They always put me in the thirteen. You are a guest; I’m local.” His pose on the bed makes Jack think of a cat on a satin pillow, with a collar decorated by diamonds. If Jack always looked like he owned the place, everywhere he went, Rhys definitely beat him to it in this room. This was his territory.

“Okay,” he breathed with a chuckle.

Rhys stilled. “Wait, did you actually… agree with me right now?”

“And if I did?” he teases, watches. His eyes follow the lines of Rhys’ body again. Still too pale, too bony, but pretty.

“Not sure,” Rhys hums, pretending to ponder over it. “If Handsome Jack agreed with me on something, I would probably go crazy.”

Jack huffed. “Well, I’m waiting. Go crazy.”

“Am I not yet, though?” Rhys asked. He let out a giggle that, honestly, didn’t sound exactly _sane_. “I mean, I’m talking with Handsome Jack in my hospital room. How crazy is that?”

“You talked to me before, dumdum,” Jack reminds.

“I know; you tried to make me commit suicide, so you would have the room for yourself,” Rhys says with a laugh that makes Jack wince. “ _‘Do the world a favour and give up, okay? It’s not worth it. The world is trying to kill you, so make it easier, don’t waste resources,’_ ” he mimics the CEO’s voice.

Not knowing how he feels about Rhys remembering his dark moment, Jack changes the topic. “But you didn’t. Whatever brought you to hospital that time, it made you kinda stubborn. What was it again?” Like he ever bothered to ask, or to look at the symptoms.

“The same thing as today,” Rhys huffs.

“Which is?” Jack indulges him once, but he already knows where this is going.

“The same thing as the very first time.”

“Keep your secret, then,” he flops back down on his pillow. It’s old, hard, thin, nothing compared to the silky pillows he has at home. “God, this pillow sucks,” he grumbles. Then he notes a fact. “You came here after me. This room was empty when I was brought here.”

“Wow, how observant!” Rhys mocks. “Sorry for not waking you up, I guess.”

“Just sayin’ that last time you were pretty loud,” Jack shrugs.

Out of the corner of his eye he sees Rhys pause for a second. “What last time?” He sounds almost nervous, his image crumbling. It stands on a weaker foundation than months ago.

“I dunno. You were brought in by an ambulance, screaming and… looking terrible.” The memory somehow hits him stronger than it did when it happened. Not like a truck, but like a person running into him and almost sending him to the ground. He shivers. He still hears the scream, the woman, the silence.

“Oh, uhm,” Rhys makes a thinking noise, “was it around March? Eleventh or so?”

“Does this happen to you a lot?” Jack looks at him this time, trying to see if Rhys is being sarcastic or something. He isn’t. “Seriously, what’s with you? How did you lose your arm?”

“My arm is on the nightstand, see?” Rhys hisses almost aggressively, but it comes out like a cat’s last desperate attempt to sound scary facing a much bigger predator. Where he is looking is a Hyperion cheapest prosthetic. Which is still pretty cool for a prosthetic.

“At least you recognise quality,” Jack hums. Rhys smiles, his cheeks flushing.

* * *

* * *

Taking the wires out of his leg also kept Jack in the hospital bed in the room number thirteen for a few days. The first one he spent alone. On the second one, a barely conscious man with a sterile patch over his eye and an IV filled with suspiciously purple liquid was brought in. The chin, the nose, the lips, Jack would recognise in his sleep.

Rhys became coherent by evening. Or, Jack thought he did. He still just laid there, staring into the ceiling. Hours earlier, he ignored his visit, pretending to be asleep. Jack understood that; he hated hospital visits too.

But now, as Rhys refused to acknowledge him – like the CEO of Hyperion, or like an old friend – it was mildly concerning. He couldn’t really get up and go check on him (his leg was tied to something to keep it steady), and his words went ignored, so he decided to throw things at Rhys.

The paper tissue hit his nose and rolled over it. The spare cable for the mobile charger landed on his chest. A t-shirt landed on his stomach, a sock on the cable, another on the previous one.

“Bet I can throw this slipper right through the space between the socks and shirt, not hit you, and land the slipper on the heater, huh?” he said. And he did. He did the same with the other slipper, although it almost fell of and took the first one with it.

Tiniest smile tugged at Rhys’ mouth. Slowly, he moved his head. One very tired brown eye looked at Jack.

* * *

* * *

He didn’t feel like a stabbed man. The cut in his stomach was so clean that when the doctors sewed it shut, everything just fit together, and he almost didn’t feel it over the low dose of painkillers. Jack felt good enough to go home, but Tim glared at him, and threatened to call Wilhelm. Or worse, Nisha.

“Fine!” he grumbled. “But I want room thirteen!”

Here he was. Rhys was asleep when Jack was wheeled in on a wheelchair. He couldn’t believe his eyes at first. They didn’t meet every time, of course, but Jack kept requesting room thirteen, thinking that maybe, with a little company, the stay will be more pleasant.

Rhys didn’t say a single word to him this time. He stared on the spot on the ceiling, an occasional tear rolling down his cheek the only sign that there was someone behind that empty expression. Jack didn’t know how to help this time. He didn’t know what was broken in the first place.

* * *

* * *

Ever since Tim dated Wilhelm, he grew way too confident, and Jack stopped to like it. At first, he was glad that Tim could take care of himself, but now that his little brother was cocky enough to make him stay in the hospital for a fucking _light concussion_! Even the doctors said he is safe to go home! One day of sleep, and he can return to work. But Tim held his ground.

They arrived at night, so his roommate was asleep. Tiny in the bed, pale, skin almost translucent. Like a princess waiting for a prince to rose her with a kiss.

Jack must’ve fallen asleep staring at Rhys in the dim light. Maybe the hit in the head actually did something to him. But now he felt well rested. Guessing it was about two in the morning, at least five hours of staring into the wall were ahead of him. Or… he can stare at something else.

Jack opened his eyes and adjusted his head. The room was dark, no light coming in anymore. Only the faint glow of the moon fell on Rhys’ back. He had turned away from Jack at some point. His blanket fell down to his hips, and he was slightly shivering, Jack could tell.

He gave it thought, two… Fuck it. What can happen? He threw a blanket over his brother’s shoulders after he passed out with a book in hand many times. It’s a nice gesture. Jack stood up.

His feet were silent as he paddled towards the other bed, any trace of a limp gone. He reached for the blanket to pull it up, but his eyes caught something in the dark. He didn’t see, but he knew it was there. He squinted, and at that moment he even heard something. A sniffle.

“Rhys?” Jack asked as he reached blindly for some light. He hissed as all the lights in the room came on with one switch. What kind of idiot made this place?

The thing Jack’s eyes saw in the darkness was blood. A big bloodstain under Rhys’ leg, the liquid slowly oozing from cuts on his thigh.

For a second ran by autopilot, Jack snatched the sharp knife from the trembling hand. He wasn’t sure if he was met with any resistance; Rhys was so weak he wouldn’t know. When the knife was safely on the other side of the room, Jack pressed the emergency call button. Then autopilot stopped.

“What the hell are you doing?” he shook the young man’s shoulder. “Are you trying to kill yourself, idiot?”

A chuckle escaped Rhys’ lips, and it was more than any words could convey. In that chuckle, he heard it all.

_Well, yes._

_Why are you asking?_

_Are you blind, old man?_

_Just like you told me to do._

_Don’t you remember, Jack?_

_Do you see that irony?_

“Don’t be stupid,” Jack said to all of that, even though Rhys didn’t actually answer his question.

The door to their room rattled, but it didn’t open. It was locked. “You locked the door?” No answer.

Urged by common sense, Jack left Rhys on the bed and jogged to the door to unlock it. On the other side he heard at least three confused people, speaking one over each another. There was no lock on the door, no keyhole, but it was somehow jammed.

“I don’t know how to open it,” he called, hoping that the people would know.

“The latch bolt came lose, fuck!” someone on the other side swore. “I’ll get a technician.”

A female voice spoke to Jack. “Sir, what’s happening inside?”

_Good question_ , he thought. “Rhys, the other guy here, is trying to kill himself. He is bleeding but conscious last time I checked.”

“Can you stop the bleeding?” she asked.

Jack turned around to see Rhys is no longer on the bed. With one arm and one leg that wasn’t sliced to ribbons he was pushing himself towards the knife, making surprisingly no sound of pain.

Grabbing a sheet from his bed, Jack quickly walked towards him. He kicked the knife further away and rolled Rhys on his back. “Stop it, idiot,” he growled even though Rhys wasn’t doing anything anymore. Just laid there, looking at Jack with one brown and one glass blue eye.

Jack tried not to stare as he wrapped the sheet around Rhys’ right thigh. The younger man was only wearing boxers and a short hospital gown, and for the first time, Jack saw what took his arm and eye. But he didn’t stare at the light blue markings covering his left leg and hip, and everything that got exposed by his struggle.

Unsure of what to do next, Jack looked back to the door. He heard screwdriver quickly disassembling the knob, more voices coming from the corridor. When he looked back to Rhys, he was staring into the ceiling, pretending Jack doesn’t exist. But Handsome Jack won’t be ignored.

The CEO grunted a little as he picked up the boy and carried him to his own bed. He sat, keeping Rhys in his lap, the pale face rested against his shoulder. That got him a reaction.

“What are you doing?” Rhys asked weakly, moving his head just enough so his healthy eye could look at him. A rather big scar on his temple caught Jack’s attention for a second before he looked into the brown and didn’t look away again.

“Saving your dumb ass,” he said, but it lacked the growl he wanted to put into it. It was the tone he used to talk to Tim. “What are _you_ doing?”

Rhys looked away, buried his nose in Jack’s shirt. “’M tired,” he mumbled.

There were many things Jack could say if he pretended the sentence means something different. But he understood what Rhys meant, and so he remained silent, holding him.

If someone saw them, they would think this is Tim posing as Jack with a stolen mask. Only few people knew this side of Jack.

In a voice so soft and quiet voice not even Rhys would hear, Jack muttered the one name that always felt heavy. He didn’t say it in months, maybe longer. _Angel_.

* * *

* * *

Seven years. Jack and Rhys had been meeting for seven long years. No wonder the boy was tired. Not even Jack had so much will to fight in him, not that he’d admit it, even as he stood in the elevator, a big teddy bear with a Hyperion yellow sweatshirt in one hand.

He has no right to request a visit, there is no reason to be let in, but he is Handsome Jack. Nobody dares to say a word as he marches to the room thirteen.

Rhys is pretending to be asleep, and he is good at it, but Jack and Tim didn’t survive their childhood by being just good at things. He can see the tiny movement of the man’s eyes under the lids, the one he can’t fight when focusing on listening who walked in.

Jack’s eyes fall to the handcuffs connecting Rhys’ left arm to the bed. A plan forms in his head. “I’ll take the thing off your hand if you stop pretending you are asleep,” he says.

One brown eye opens and widens.

Rhys had probably never seen Jack in all his glory, his many-piece outfit, hair styled, pose screaming _The CEO_. It was also unusual to see him as something else than a patient. A visitor. With a teddy bear. No wonder this sight managed to pull him out of his haze.

“Hello there, pumpkin,” Jack grins and nonchalantly sits in a chair that was pulled to Rhys bed. He reaches for the cuffs, quickly disabling the electrical lock and sliding them open. Rhys pulls the arm away like Jack bit him, hiding it under the blanket.

He stares at Jack like he should disappear any moment and he wanted to see it. Waiting for something to happen. He doesn’t even blink.

“You not gonna say hi?” Jack asks with a raised eyebrow. “Or thanks? ‘Thank you, Jack, for saving me, freeing me and bringing me the cutest teddy bear that’s even wearing a tiny sweater with the logo of my favourite company?’ Huh?”

Rhys blinks once, twice. Finally, he clears his throat, looks away. “Thank you… Jack…”

“You’re welcome!” the CEO grins. He sits the bear next to Rhys like he would give it to a child. “He’s gonna look after you when I’m not here to save your ass. Come to think about it, I should’ve put a camera in its nose, damn it! I have the coolest ideas, but this one came late. Dammit, Jack!”

Rhys chuckles, trying to hide a smile under the blanket that is still pulled up to his shoulder. “Why are you here?” he asks with a soft, curious smile still playing at his lips.

Jack freezes. He knows that question would come up. He had an answer prepared, an easy lie. _Just making sure you are alright_. But he didn’t expect to see a smile like that. How could he lie? “I don’t want you to lose the fight,” he says. It doesn’t make sense. Rhys cocks his head, raising his eyebrows. Sunlight dances on the surface of his glass eye. “I know what, uhm… I’ve seen your skin. I mean, I know, and…” Dammit. “It’s curable. You just have to stay strong, not give up.”

Rhys’ smile disappears. “Seven years,” he says.

“There is cure…”

“The cure doesn’t work!”

He is not right, but Jack’s heart agrees with him. He used to say the same thing, scream it at the doctors. He used to watch through the glass wall, glare at the purple fluid slowly being pumped in his little girl’s body. He turned his face away from the blue markings.

“It does,” he forces himself to say. “The… disease is just mean, and it takes time.” She didn’t have the time.

Rhys sighs and pulls away slightly. “I’m tired…”

_“I want to sleep, daddy. I’m tired.”_

_“Keep your eyes on me, baby girl. C’mon, Angel.”_

Jack shudders. The boy shouldn’t have this effect on him. He straightens in the chair a little and schools his expression. Hospital visit. He can do this. “Can I see your arm, pumpkin?” He isn’t looking at the prosthetic on the bedside table, and Rhys knows it, and he still looks at it and shrugs. “The other one,” Jack adds.

Reluctantly, Rhys drops the blanket, and it pools around his waist. His left arm isn’t covered by anything but a short sleeve. His skin is mostly white and pale, but in some places, the treatment caused it to turn blue, the colour creating intricate patterns on his skin.

Following Jack’s intent gaze to the marks, he sighs. “I hate them.” It’s obvious that he is fighting the urge to hide them. “People get freaked out; they think the disease can spread. They avoid me and point fingers and—” his breath catches.

“People are stupid, Rhysie,” Jack hums. He is subconsciously leaning closer, almost desperate to touch the blue lines (again). “They are beautiful. Blue suits you.” He doesn’t even ask for permission, and almost regrets it when Rhys startles at the touch, but he just has to. His finger touches a single blue dot, then moves to another.

“J-Jack?” Rhys stutters, but he doesn’t try to pull away. “What are you doing?”

What is he doing, indeed. Jack moves away quick, straightens. This was stupid. He needs to save it. “I’m just saying that they are beautiful. Find smarter friends if yours are afraid of these,” he gestures to the arm. “You shouldn’t hide them.” The marks are just a stupid side effect of the treatment, but Jack sees more in them. Maybe he sees _her_. Maybe he sees sunlight glistening on the surface of a glass blue eye.

“It’s kind of hard to make friends when you spend so much time in hospital,” Rhys shrugs.

“Well, you met me, so it’s possible,” Jack chuckles. When he looks up, Rhys’ face is surprised, lips parted. He sees a question – _are we friends_ – and he winks. Rhys smiles.

* * *

* * *

“This is the third time this week, Jack.” Timothy is tapping his foot, trying to look annoyed, contemplating, but Jack already knows his brother won’t say no.

“Important business,” he shrugs, straightening his shirt and checking the outfit out one more time. White button-up, two buttons left open, khaki pants, leather belt matching his polished shoes. A box of chocolates is waiting hidden in the car. With chocolates, even Jack wouldn’t be able to pretend he is heading to a business meeting. And he needs Tim to go to the office instead of him.

“Yeah, sure,” the younger brother sighs. “Fine.”

“Thanks, Timmy, you are the best,” Jack grins and pats his cheeks patronisingly. “Gotta make some powerful friends for Hyperion.”

He is one foot out the door when Tim grumbles. “Sure you do.” With a tone much more resembling the CEO he smugly adds: “Say hi to him, and bring him over for dinner sometimes.”

Jack resists the urge to still, to ask how the hell does he know, and then why the hell is he willing to impersonate him if he knows that Jack doesn’t have anything that important. He decides not to question his luck and just walks to the car.

Jack knows the fastest route to the hospital by heart. How could he not? He also knows on which days and which hours Rhys is alone. The only thing he doesn’t know is what state will he find him in.

Because sometimes, Rhys is not pretending to be asleep. He is actually so tired that he doesn’t wake up when Jack sits next to him. So, he places the gifts on the bedside table, leaves a note and stays for only a few minutes, giving him rest.

On other days, Rhys is just mildly tired. He half sits, half lays on a mountain of pillows, a content smile on his lips as Jack traces the markings on his arms with the tips of his fingers. Or lips.

Rarely, Rhys is full of energy, and Jack can take him out for a walk. Either just in the corridors, or to the park by the hospital. He always wraps him in two hoodies, three blankets, and sometimes even places his jacket on top of the cocoon. Sometimes, Rhys takes the big teddy bear with him. He refuses to say what’s its name, claiming it’s stupid.

Today, though, it’s something new. Rhys is not in the room when Jack arrives.

He feels the blood in his veins turn to lead. Jack’s rational self sees all Rhys’s stuff still in the room, and he tells himself he is alright, but fear grips him tight anyway, forcing the air out of his lungs.

_“Keep your eyes on me, baby girl. C’mon, Angel. Angel?!”_

Jack closes his eyes and breaths in deep. Rhys wouldn’t give up, right? He wouldn’t leave Jack.

“He was taken for an emergency surgery this morning,” a soft voice says behind him. It’s a nurse, one that Jack met here before.

“Why?” Jack asks, back still turned to the woman so he has some time to school his expression, force his back and shoulders straight.

“I can’t tell you, sir,” she says hesitantly. “You are not family.” Very helpful. But Jack can’t scream at and threaten the staff here. “His parents are waiting by the operation room, though. They might agree to fill you in, given your relationship.”

_What relationship?_ Jack wants to ask, but he can’t bullshit his way out of this one. But he can’t approach Rhys’ parents either. They agreed to keep it a secret. Whatever _it_ was.

“Do you know how long he will be in there?” he asks carefully.

The nurse hesitates. “Probably a few more hours.” Thankfully, she sees a concerned partner in Jack, and not someone who could cost her her career.

_What could take so long?_ Jack closes his eyes, heaves a sigh. He can’t not follow Rhys’ wish, but he can’t not lose him. What if he doesn’t open his eyes again?

Jack clenches his hands into fists at his sides and unclenches them. With a mumbled, silent sorry he picks up the teddy bear from Rhys’ bed. “Where is the operation room?” he asks the nurse. Time to meet some new people.

Rhys didn’t change appearance much in the past seven years. As it turns out, Rhys’ father aged for both of them. His moustache isn’t brown anymore but grey, as well as his hair. His face is full of wrinkles.

His mother is a lady, if Jack’s ever seen a woman that deserves a title. She sits on the edge of the chair, back and shoulders straight, expression unreadable. Only her eyes betray what she is feeling right now, and the paper tissue that she is gripping too tightly. Her hair is a mixture of brown and silver, elegantly collected into a bun.

When they look up, Jack sees a typical mixture of emotions. Surprise, worry, awe, and worry again. Before they can ask, he introduces himself.

“Name’s Jack, as you probably know,” he outstretches his arm towards Rhys’ father. It’s not the best way to introduce yourself to someone’s parents, but to be fair, Jack never had a mother like Rhys to teach him not to speak while eating, or how to be polite. “I’m Rhys’… friend.”

The father snaps out of his shock at hearing his son’s name, and he takes the CEO’s hand. His grip is not firm, hand shaking. He looks tired, beaten. Much like Jack looked years ago.

“Eduard Strongfork,” he introduces himself. “Rhys’— Rhys’ father. And this is my wife, Barbara,” he introduces the woman. Barbara looks much more collected when she stands up to take Jack’s hand, but her eyes only fill more with worry.

“Rhys talks about you a lot,” she says. “I understand that you are the mysterious new friend he kept mentioning in the past weeks?” Jack nods. “And you are the mysterious patron who paid for a better room and services.” That’s right, and Jack nods again. Rhys deserved to have a room for himself, and a food slightly better than hospital food. “We don’t know how to thank you,” she says finally.

Jack shakes his head. “Just tell me what happened. Why is he in surgery?”

“The doctors said the disease is attacking his brain again,” Eduard says, uneasiness weighting his shoulders and dragging them down. Jack feels it too, dragging him towards the floor; sees black hole opening under him and threatening to swallow him. “I… I know it sounds bad, but our Rhys… He survived all of the complication the disease brings so far.”

_Angel did too_ , Jack thinks.

* * *

* * *

Rhys is awake, if a little groggy, when they finally wheel him out of the operation room. The parents have been informed previously that the surgery was successful, and Jack almost shouted with relief. He felt like screaming, and hugging someone, and building a spaceship.

His head was wrapped in bandages, he was lying, and his one eye was half closed, but Rhys still managed to catch a glimpse of the teddy bear hanging off Jack’s arm. “Angel!” he called, voice slurred. “You brought my Angel!” He didn’t notice Jack, nor his shocked face, when he tucked the plush between his arm and body.

Rhys sleeps most of the day, recovering from the surgery. Jack doesn’t spend much time anyway, the presence of the parents making him uncomfortable, even though he is too old for that. (Or maybe because of it.)

Another opportunity to visit arises two days later, and Jack only bothers to leave a note for Tim to go into the office. He tries not to think about what he learned as he speeds through the city, hand coming to rub at his mouth every so often as an unpleasant thought nags at him. _How could he know?_

Rhys blushes when he sees Jack before he leans in for a quick kiss. “So, I heard you met my parents,” he says, scratching the back of his neck and avoiding Jack’s eyes.

“I didn’t tell them about… anything happening between us,” he assures him, gesturing vaguely.

“About that,” the younger man giggles, face turning a deep shade of red. “I didn’t know that… that you didn’t tell them. So, I, uhm, calledyoumyboyfriendaccidentally.” The words fall off his mouth quickly, and he giggles nervously again.

Jack only smiles. “You are a dumbass, Rhysie, aren’t ya?” He learned this long time ago, but it will never stop being endearing. “Anyway,” he straightens in his chair, sounding more serious. “I wanted to ask you something. About… Angel.” Rhys looks guilty. “Why that name?”

Rhys tries to hide his face under his one hand, but as he peeks through his fingers and sees Jack’s frowning face, he groans and gives up. “Don’t laugh, okay?” he says. “I… I heard you say that name once, and I thought it’s fitting. When I have the bear, I feel safer, like you were watching over me. So, I named it Angel, like my Guardian Angel.”

Jack lets out a long breath. A smile tugs at his lips. “Well, I didn’t expect that,” he admits. “Aren’t you a poor, romantic soul, Rhysie?”

The younger man pouts, trying to glare but failing, as always. “And what did you expect, then?” he asks. “Why does the name of my bear matter?”

Jack’s eyes slide closed.

_“Why is it important to stay in this room? I wanna go explore!”_

Innocent and stupid question.

“Jack?” Rhys’ voice calls him back to reality.

“Angel was…” He can’t say it. “She was…” It hurts. “Angel was my…” _‘He was taken for an emergency surgery this morning.’_ “My daughter.”

“Oh, I… I’m sorry,” Rhys says quietly. “What… What happened?”

“She died almost seven years ago,” Jack sighs. With the air, some heavy weight leaves him. Like a rock he’d been carrying for years. “She was a siren too.” He doesn’t talk about how she loved the blue markings on her skin. Or how she was never allowed out of the room because he forbid it. Neither feels appropriate. “I lost her shortly before the accident that ruined my face. I made a lot of mistakes back then.”

He dares to look up for a second, sees Rhys’ shocked face. Under the shock, there is sadness, and beyond that, something uneasy. “Talk to me, Rhys,” he nudges lightly. “What do you want to ask?” _You know that there is nothing you should be afraid of form me… right?_

“Is this the reason why…” Rhys begins, but he doesn’t finish the question, already looking for the answer in Jack’s face.

“Why what, pumpkin?”

“Why you are here,” Rhys finishes, flinching slightly.

_At first it maybe was_ … “No, dumdum. I’m here because of you, not because of the blue.” _Damn, I should be an artist._ “Don’t think like that, princess. I’m here because of Rhys, the boy who laughed at _me_ when I was angry and forecasting him a long, painful death. The boy who talked about painful agony like it was an old friend he could face any time. The boy that drools on my shoulder at any opportunity he gets.”

“I don’t drool!” Rhys frowns. “And I’m not a boy anymore!”

“I know that,” Jack winks. They laugh together.

* * *

* * *

“I was serious, Jack,” Timothy frowns, standing in the doorframe and blocking his way out. Jack could just push him away and walk out, but then there is Wilhelm behind him. Maybe they would put him in room thirteen when the merc is finished with him. “I said I want you to bring him over for dinner. I won’t do your stupid paperwork and deal with the board of idiots if I don’t know the one you are seeing is worth it.” He grew way too confident with Wilhelm, and Jack contemplated if a few broken bones is worth teaching his brother a lesson.

“I can’t,” he admits. “It’s not quite possible to bring him here. And how did you even find out it’s a he?!” he frowns. “Have you been spying on me?”

“Aftershave,” Tim says, rolling his eyes. “We use the same, so it was easy to tell when you came home smelling like someone else’s aftershave.”

“Really the jealous wife here, Timmy. Do you also check my suit for strangers’ hair?”

“What, no!” Tim sputters. “But you— Hey!” he frowns, suddenly. “Don’t change the topic, asshole!” He became way too good. “Why is it impossible to bring him here?”

Jack rubs his face with both hands. He huffs in frustration, groans, but then he gives up. “He is in a hospital, long-term. Can’t leave.” He lets his hands slide down his face slowly, peeking at his brother over his fingers as he says: “He’s a siren.”

“Oh.”

Jack rolls his eyes. “Yeah, _oh_. Now, if you’d let me…” he tries to slip past Tim, and the twin lets him. But not before having the last word again.

“This sounds like a bad idea, Jack.”

_Because it is._

* * *

* * *

“One hot chocolate for the—” Jack stops mid-sentence. Rhys is asleep on the bed. That would be understandable, only Jack was just away for two minutes, and he was perfectly awake before he left. The chocolate falls to the floor and spills over his white pants.

_“I want to sleep, daddy. I’m tired.”_

_“Keep your eyes on me, baby girl. C’mon, Angel.”_

“Nurse!”

* * *

* * *

“Jack, let me go,” Rhys whines. He tries to wiggle out of the hug, to no avail. “I’m alright, I’m here.”

“I haven’t seen you in a week,” Jack mutters into his neck, breathing in. Rhys is freshly shaven, and his aftershave became something that meant comfort for the older man. Like the pleasant scent of lavender from Tim’s candles. Home. “I haven’t seen you since they put you in quarantine.”

“You did,” Rhys counters him with a chuckle. “You saw me through the glass, and we called each other. Let go, you octopus monster.”

Finally, Jack releases Rhys from his hug. “Never do this again,” he warns him in a stern voice that does nothing to the smiling young man.

“Getting infection, or getting it cured?” he asks cheekily.

“Both,” Jack grumbles and ruffles Rhys’ hair, knowing that he hates it. “So, I wanted to talk about something,” he admits. “Before you so rudely fell into a coma.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry for interrupting you,” Rhys rolls his eyes. “What did you want to talk about?” There is a hint of concern in his furrowed brows, and Jack has to kiss it away.

“My brother wants to meet you.”

“Oh.”

“You are gonna like him,” he promises. “And he’s gonna like you.”

* * *

* * *

“Stop pacing, Jack,” Rhys whimpers, half annoyed, half nervous.

“Jack, stop it,” Tim says more sternly. “You are just making everybody nervous.” And by everybody he means _everybody_. Rhys’ parents, Tim and Wil, the nurse that waits there with them. But Jack only has eyes for Rhys, and he only stops for him.

The young man gives him a beaten half-smile. He is trembling, and Jack mindlessly drapes his jacket over his thin form. Rhys had lost a lot of weight. He hadn’t had the strength to put his prosthetic on in weeks. His hair is still short after the last surgery, and all the scars are visible, mainly the one on his left temple, many times renewed, now deep and silvery, the result of the mix of blue and scarred white.

Blue markings cover the left half of his body, but only few people know that. Right now, Rhys is wearing Jack’s yellow sweater and long, comfy sweatpants. He is clutching Angel with his frail, thin arm, and the only thing keeping him upright in the wheelchair are probably the straps. Even his head seems too heavy.

The disease gave him a solid beating in the past weeks, but for the first time, his tests showed something positive. So, now they are all here, waiting for confirmation.

“Sit down, Jack,” Rhys begs, reaching out and almost tipping over. Jack quickly helps him lean back in the chair and sits in the plastic chair right next to him.

This is new for him, new and scary. They never got those nice results with Angel. She was just getting sicker and sicker until her tiny body couldn’t fight any longer. Jack looks to his left. Rhys looks tiny in the chair.

“Mr Strongfork, I’ve got your results.” The doctor is in the door, smiling. Everybody smiles. “We are hundred percent positive that you are cured.” The rest of his speech is drowned out by happy cheers, relieved sighs and laughter.

Jack almost tips the whole wheelchair over with the force of his hug, Rhys presses his happy grin into his shoulder, giggles giddily, and tries to hug back as much as he can. And Jack drinks up the happiness, feeling tears in the corners of his eyes, feeling his lips move and hearing himself say: “Marry me, you fucking idiot.”

* * *

* * *

Six months later, Jack is humming along a song he would never admit to listening to. The sound of eggs being whisked next to him assures him that he is exactly where he wants to be, where he can be whoever he wants to be, home. He continues to work on the meat, knowing that as soon as he puts it in the oven and washes his hands, he can pull his boyfriends close and kiss the daylights out of him.

“This must be some kind of record,” Rhys hums. “The arm is freaking neat.”

“Eggs done?” he asks, not looking away from work knowing that if he does and sees Rhys’ smiling face, he won’t get back to work anytime soon.

“Yep,” the younger man answers, the smile audible even in the short word. Everything else is drowned out for a second as Tim and Wil come back from their shopping trip, hauling bags of food, drinks and, presumably, Christmas presents into the correct places. Jack finishes his work and washes his hands, putting the meat in the oven just as Rhys finishes the dessert he’d been working on.

Now that they have three hours until the dinner needs any attention, a playful smirk appears on Jack’s lips. He hugs Rhys from behind, pulling him to his chest. He wants to say something different, fully intending to do something inappropriate, but Rhys yawns.

“Are you tired?” Jack asks with concern. “You should take a nap before dinner.”

Rhys shakes his head and smirks. “Is there anything I can say to make you change your mind? I’m not tired…?”

“No,” Jack says simply, already picking him up. Rhys gained some healthy weight, but he is still light as a feather. “I can see you are tired. Nap time.”

“Only when you stay there with me,” Rhys demands, already closing his eyes and letting his head fall to Jack’s shoulder. He knows that sooner or later the overprotectiveness and excessive care will leave Jack, and that it would be much worse if he was with his parents, so for now, he tolerates it. And he can definitely take advantage of it.

“Anything you want, princess,” Jack hums mindlessly, pressing kisses to his temple as he walks to their bedroom. Their bed is soft, big and covered in silky sheets. Rhys’ side is guarded by Angel, and it has less pillows than Jack’s, though many had been moved from one side to the other in the past weeks, and Jack suspects that by New Year, he will be lucky if he can get one pillow for the night.

Rhys is half asleep before his back even touches the bed, still getting tired easily. Jack helps him gently take his blue sweeter off and pull his sweatpants down, and then he unlatches the new cybernetic arm, putting it in a charger, because Rhys always forgets to charge it, and then he is grumpy when it stops working in the middle of the day. He should’ve just gotten him some model for children with colourful lights and pictures reminding him of the battery.

Jack dutifully climbs into bed next to Rhys after he rids himself of clothes, and he pulls him to his chest. One brown and one golden eye peek at him for a second from under heavy lids, and then Rhys is snoozing.

Eight years he waited for this. Jack hugs his little siren a little bit tighter. Eight years in exchange for happily ever after.

**Author's Note:**

> You can follow me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/ElfWriting).
> 
> Please, leave a comment, tell me what you think of this work, how it made you feel. I love hearing from you all. ^.^" More importantly, tell me if you feel like the tags aren't well handled and I should add something.


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